The girls in my 3rd period are having a very good time. We are painting murals today—it’s one of the few days I indulge my artsy-fartsy side and convince myself that a week of art will teach universal theme in literature and art. I’m not sure how it’s going, standards-wise…but I know the girls in the back corner of the room are loving it, because their group has merged with the boys in the adjacent corner. The conversation is going something like this:
Girl--Hey! I know where you live!
Guy (shouting)--How do you know where I live?! Stalker. That’s so weird!!
Girl--We live on the same street….we have for years!
Guy--Oh, well, that’s cool I guess!!*
Shrieks of laughter emerge from the girls. The guys look a little leery. Then they begin to warm up to the idea. The idea that they, their faces, their snarky, rude remarks, can elicit these shrieks. They perk up, shoulders straightening. The two groups merge, and all productivity and semblance of painting ceases.
In a matter of minutes, the ringleader of the guys, the one who accused the girl of stalking, is waving a bottle of paint with abandon, cracking scintillating jokes and dribbling yellow all over my floor.
Guy--Yeah, didn’t she like me in, like, 3rd grade? That’s what I heard!!!
Girl--She totally did!!!! It was so obvious.
Guy (grinning)--That’s so weird. Ew. Weird!!
More paint pours from the carton. My floor would make Jackson Pollock doubt his artistic sensibilities.
I bolt over, scold him for not listening to my well-thought out, meticulous paint station instructions, and then I make him clean up and sit down. The girls look on in adoration. What a rebel.
I could get upset, but let’s be honest. Heart-fluttering, punctuation-satiated 7th grade encounters such-as-these are the only ones cemented in my own memory. Casting furtive glances at trumpeters #3, 5 and 7 left a clear, indelible impression, but could I name a single march we played when I was in junior high band? Hardly. I don't think I can even play a scale anymore.
On a warm, breezy day spring afternoon like today, it’s especially hard to pretend I'm a grown-up, terribly concerned with literary themes, paint procedures and orderly classroom conduct.
*The excessive punctuation is not a lapse of judgement in my writing style. It is a fair representation of how junior highers speak. If you come visit me, you will believe me.
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